Free Rules for a Proper Governess by Jennifer Ashley

legs. In the dreams, he could taste the nectar of her, take in her beautiful scent. She’d groan and shift as he drank her, her movements languid. Once Sinclair was finished, he’d rise over her and slide himself inside.
    At that wonderful point, the dream always dissolved, and Sinclair would wake up, half groaning, ramrod stiff, fists balled. He needed release—he’d held himself in too long.
    Sinclair had learned after the first few years alone that he could sate himself physically with a woman without engaging his emotions. It had been a relief to discover that—he could calm his libidinous needs without feeling he’d betrayed the woman he’d loved with all his heart.
    A week before he’d met the pickpocket, Sinclair’s brother Steven and his new wife had introduced Sinclair to a widow his age, Mrs. Thomalin, who’d been charming, pretty, intelligent, and hadn’t minded Sinclair kissing her in a private corner of the ballroom where they’d been dancing. He should offer to take her out to a restaurant or some such, and they could return here afterward for a private evening. His servants would never say a word. They were loyal to him—Macaulay and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, and the under-servants never told tales about Mr. McBride. Their discretion could be counted on while their master relieved his pent-up desires.
    The coach pulled to a halt. Sinclair came out of his stupor and gathered his papers, retrieving the ribbon and tying it around the thick stack. His valise was already full, so he thrust the papers at Macaulay, who’d opened the carriage door for him.
    Sinclair’s study was on the second floor above the ground floor, a large room in the front of the house. A double door opened from it into his bedchamber, though his bedroom could be entered from the hallway as well. Sinclair liked the private aerie where he could be alone with his thoughts—that is when things were quiet in the nursery above him.
    They were quiet tonight. Suspiciously so. Sinclair had left his coat, hat, and gloves downstairs with Peter, the footman, and now he thumped his valise onto his desk. Macaulay laid the armload of papers he’d carried up for Sinclair beside it.
    “Where are the urchins, Macaulay?” Sinclair asked him. “Or did Miss Evans give up and slip them a dose of laudanum? I’ll have to sack her if she did.”
    “They’re in bed.” Macaulay’s voice was gruffer than usual. “They had their supper and went to bed, and are now sleeping.”
    Sounded unlikely. “Don’t tell me she truly did give them laudanum.”
    “No, sir.” Macaulay moved uneasily.
    Sinclair stopped, and the papers he’d been straightening slipped through his fingers. “Why? Are they ill?” He lived in perpetual fear his children would fall ill again, as they had when their mother had passed. They’d been so very sick, especially Andrew, a baby then. They’d survived it; Daisy had not.
    “No, sir,” Macaulay said. “New governess. She . . . started today.”
    “New governess?” Sinclair blinked. “What the devil happened to Miss Evans? Or did Andrew manage to lock her in the cellar? And where did I obtain a new governess, for God’s sake? I know I’m not the best of fathers, but I
can
manage to remember when I do and don’t hire someone to look after my wee ones.”
    Macaulay opened and closed his big hands, saying nothing. Odd. Macaulay never had difficulty conveying his opinions on absolutely everything, usually in a loud Scottish growl.
    “What is it, man?” Sinclair asked. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before.”
    Macaulay let out his breath. “I think you’d better talk to her yourself.”
    “I agree.” Sinclair shoved the last stack of his papers into some kind of order. “If the children are tucked up and sleeping, send her down.”
    “Right.” Macaulay hurried off, looking relieved, slamming the door behind him.
    Sinclair gave up on his papers and moved to a little table near the window